Page 69 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

I check my sidearm one final time and holster it. “When she wakes up, it will be over. Vadim will be dead, the threat will be eliminated, and we can start our new life without any shadows from the past.”

He lets out a sound of frustration. “What if this is a setup, and you don’t come back?”

The question tries to force me to think about things I don’t want to consider. Through the windshield, I see the first faint tracesof dawn beginning to lighten the eastern horizon and allow it to distract me. “Nothing will go wrong.”

“You can’t guarantee that, and you know it.” He stares at me with growing concern. “You’re making a mistake, Nikandr. Not just tactically, but personally. She deserves to know.”

I glance at him and then away. “She deserves to wake up free. I’ll tell her everything when I get back, and it’s a done deal with nothing left to worry about.”

Maksim stares at me for a long moment, then shakes his head. “You’re not thinking clearly. It’s personal, and that makes you dangerous to yourself and everyone on this team.”

I scowl at him. “My personal investment doesn’t compromise my judgment.”

He leans back in his seat with resignation heavy in his voice. “Doesn’t it? It seems like you’re so desperate to be the hero who saves his family that you’re willing to take risks you’d never accept from any of your men.”

The accusation stings because there’s truth in it. I am desperate to end this, to eliminate the last threat standing between my family and the peaceful future we’ve planned together, but desperation doesn’t necessarily mean recklessness. Rather than punch him for his blunt assessment, I keep my tone calm. “I know what I’m doing.”

Maksim turns his attention back to the road ahead. “I hope you’re right because if you’re wrong, a lot of people are going to pay the price for your certainty.”

The rest of the drive passes in tense silence, broken only by radio checks from our support team and the steady hum of the engine.By the time we reach the staging area—a grove of eucalyptus trees half a mile from the target—the sky has lightened enough to reveal the property clearly through binoculars.

I survey the farmhouse one final time, noting the guard positions and confirming everything appears exactly as described in our intelligence reports. “Perimeter guards are exactly where they should be, rotating clockwise every twenty minutes, and currently on the north side.”

One of my men adjusts his scope as I ask, “What about interior movement?”

He answers a second later. “Minimal. A kitchen light came on five minutes ago. It’s probably someone making coffee or breakfast. The bedroom lights are still off.”

We wait until the guards complete their rotation, then move swiftly across the open ground toward the house. Everything proceeds exactly according to plan, with the guards neutralized silently, entry points secured, and the team in position for synchronized breach.

I whisper into my comm. “On my mark. Three, two, one?—”

An instant later, the front door explodes inward under the force of the battering ram, and we flood into the house with practiced precision. Instead of finding a sleeping household caught off guard, we discover empty rooms and the lingering scent of recently extinguished cigarettes.

The call comes from the back team. “Clear.”

It echoes from upstairs. “Clear.”

I move through the main living area, noting details that clearly indicate recent occupation. There are coffee cups in the sink, stillwarm to the touch. Newspapers from yesterday are scattered across the coffee table. In the bedroom, women’s clothing is draped over a chair, blonde hair lingers on the pillow, and makeup is scattered across the dresser.

They were here recently, but now they’re gone.

Maksim’s voice comes through the comm, tight with anger. “It’s a setup.”

I’m about to protest they might have just slipped away right before we arrived through some means of obtaining advanced warning, but I hear the first gunshot. The bullet punches through the kitchen window and embeds itself in the wall six inches from my head. I drop to the floor and roll toward cover as automatic weapons fire erupts from multiple positions outside the house.

Someone shouts over the gunfire, “Marksmen in the tree line. At least four shooters.”

Another voice calls out desperately, “Back exit is compromised. They’ve got the rear covered too.”

I press myself against the kitchen island and assess our situation with the cold calculation that’s kept me alive through dozens of similar encounters. We’re pinned down in an unfamiliar structure, outnumbered by shooters who had time to prepare positions, and our planned escape routes are blocked, but we’re not helpless.

I key my comm. “Smoke grenades. Create a screen and move to the vehicles. Suppressive fire on my mark.”

The next few minutes blur together in the familiar chaos of combat. Smoke fills the house, automatic weapons chatter backand forth, and we move in coordinated bounds toward the vehicles. I’m halfway to the car when something hot and violent punches into my left side, spinning me around and dropping me to one knee.

Blood soaks through my shirt as I press my hand against the wound, but I can still move, still think, and still fight. Maksim appears beside me, hauling me upright and half-carrying me toward the car.

He shouts over the gunfire. “How bad?”

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